


The Daisy Lounge

by harryunwin



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Infidelity, M/M, Masturbation, Slow Burn, bartender eggsy, unhappily married harry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2018-06-04 22:30:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6677914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harryunwin/pseuds/harryunwin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was seventeen years ago that forty year old Harry Hart made the biggest mistake of his life. Little did he know, young Eggsy was there for it. Well, part of it. His mum caters weddings. [Read as: AU in which Harry is in an unhappy marriage and copes by talking through his problems with the pretty bartender at his favourite lounge and oops they fell in love]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Harry hoped desperately that the door he was opening would be the last one for the night, save for his own. He’d been to two places already, and the sticky feeling on the bottom of his shoe was irritating him. Though really, what wasn’t making him cross lately? His shoe, his job, his husband….  _ God _ , Harry thought bitterly,  _ Joseph can go fuck himself. Not like he’d touch me _ .

He shook his head. He’d never been this bitter when he was young- this really wasn’t who Harry was. Prior to marriage, he’d been a very fun and enjoyable person. Joseph had drained that from him.

However, Harry found himself loosening up a bit as he walked through the lounge. It was amazingly familiar. He'd been there seven years ago- when he first realized he needed some time away from the house. The walls, brightly repainted the same colour, were adorned with ‘antique’ photographs of old stars. The upholstery of all the furniture was smooth with age, the bar was the same as a decade ago, and the light fixtures gave off a moody ambiance that hid any other changes he might have noticed. That was comforting, at least. That good things might not change as well.

There was, however, one startling difference. Instead of the old raspy woman working the counter, there was a young new bartender smiling at him. Harry found himself almost intimidated by how attractive the man was, almost didn't walk up and ask for a drink. Almost.

“Good evening, sir,” Harry greeted smoothly, sitting on the stool in front of him. The need for alcohol and socialization outweighed any other conflicting emotions he felt.

“Evening, sir,” the young man replied in turn, grinning. Evidently, even at a more sophisticated bar, he wasn't used to the formalities.

“How are you today?”

“I'm fine, bruv.” He reached under the bar and placed a glass on his counter. “Pick your poison?”

Harry, deterred by the simple answer, railed off the first thing he thought of. He couldn't remember what he ordered a moment later. Apparently it took some preparation, because the bartender was halfway through when he asked Harry, “Yourself?”

“Pardon me?”

“How are you? You asked me. But I gotta, yknow, do my job first.” He chuckled and slid the tumbler towards Harry. It looked amber and delicious. “Sorry about that, guv.”

“Oh, yes. No matter.” Harry tilted his glass back, not bothered when it clicked against his glasses. He felt simultaneously anxious about talking to this beautiful young man, and also strangely comfortable. He gave off an aura of acceptance and friendliness. It was because of this contradiction that he answered truthfully. “To be perfectly honest… not that great.”

“Well, what are bartenders for?” he asked, motioning vaguely to the empty bar around them, as if he regularly indulged the non-existent customers by offering his shoulder to cry on.

“Booze and flirting?” Harry responded dully before he could process the thought. He immediately flushed and put his glass down. “I apologize. This may not be my first drink of the evening.”

The young man was laughing heartily.  “Ya ain't wrong there. But c’mon, at least tell me what's got your face so down. If you wanna talk, that is.”

The boy was sweet. And considerate. He seemed to really care- he made it sound like he genuinely wanted to know what was upsetting Harry, and not that he was simply bored on a slow night. Harry smiled. It felt strange on his face.

“I'm married,” Harry began.

“Go on. I know that ain't a reason to look like this.”

“And he's absolutely awful.”

“Aw, shit,” the bartender cursed, face scrunching up sympathetically. “That sucks, bruv. I'm sorry.”

“Well, I've had a while to get used to it I suppose.” Harry swirled his drink, deciding to watch the alcohol swish around instead of seeing that pretty face marred by pity. He took a swig. “Doesn't really feel any better than fifteen years ago.”

“You’ve been married that long?” The bartender’s astonishment turned sheepish when Harry gave him a dry, amused look. “I mean- not to, ah… call you old or anything. You look quite young. Fit. But… why so long, if he’s awful?”

“It’s been seventeen, actually,” Harry corrected glumly.

The bartender watched him for a while, not saying anything. Harry just ran a finger around the lip of his glass. When it became obvious that he wasn’t going to answer his question yet, he tried again. “I haven’t seen you around here. You ever been?”

“Ah, yes. Many years ago.” Harry glanced around the lounge, a soft smile gracing his face. When he turned back, the bartender raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Don’t give me that look. It  _ was _ many years. Dear god, it must be nearly half your age.”

“Shut up,” the young man grinned. He grabbed another glass from under the counter and slowly went about making another drink. “I’m  _ twenty five _ .”

“I do apologize, good sir. I’m sure you’re also wise beyond your years.” The stranger laughed at his jokingly posh words, but didn’t comment. Harry considered saying something about the drink he was preparing- after all, he’d only just arrived and started his first. But when he looked down, the majority of it was gone. He wanted to think that he’d been so distracted by the good company that he had indulged unknowingly. But a blackened part inside of him said that his husband hadn’t spoken to him that morning, and he was bitter. “It was seven years ago.”

“That ya came here? That’s cool,” the bartender dropped an extra ice cube in the glass and slid it towards him. Harry downed the last of his first. “What was it like back then? Changed much?”

“The decor, not a bit. It’s like stepping into a memory.” And then he spoke without thinking again, but this time he smiled when the words left him. “The service, however, has improved phenomenally.”

“I’m honoured,” the bartender offered with a bow. “Such ace service does come at a price though, bruv.”

“Oh?”

“Mhm,” the young man hummed, and Harry swore the boy’s eyelids dropped seductively. He put his elbows on the counter, rested his chin on his hands, and leaned forward as he innocently said, “Tips pay the bills, they do.”

“I’ll give you a tip,” Harry teased back even as he was reaching into his pocket, “solicitation is bad for business.”

“Seems to work with you,” he grinned as Harry dropped a note on the counter.

“I tend to be the exception in most cases. Tragic, really, how  _ extra _ I must be,” Harry mused. “Tipping, intelligence, size.”

“You ain’t that tall,” the young man griped. At the same time realization dawned on him, Harry surprised himself with a childish snort. A part of him reasoned that he probably shouldn’t have had the martinis at the second bar. Another said he shouldn’t have downed his first drink so quickly. A final part said to hell with it, and he embraced the happiness that sprouted in his chest and his cloudy head as the boy flushed.

  
  


Conversation was easy with the bartender, so Harry let himself settle into the plush cushion of the stool and enjoy the soft music. It was rare that he ever took to talking with a stranger, much less someone meant to peddle drinks to whoever came in. But the man was nice. Charismatic. Funny. Attractive. It felt like time was flying by, and Harry hoped the night would never end, that he would never have to trek home. He thought he’d be perfectly happy passing small talk back and forth with the boy forever.

 

“It’s kind of gettin late. You planning on heading home soon?” The bartender replaced a bottle of vodka on the shelf behind him and collected a couple glasses from the other end of the bar.

“What?” Harry looked at his watch. “It isn’t that late.”

“It’s almost three, guv.”

Harry groaned and tapped at the watch face. “It’s losing time still. Hasn’t worked properly in ages.”

The boy eyed it for a moment. “Bit outdated, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know if I should argue or avoid dating myself,” Harry grumbled. “Even if you are right.”

The boy smiled as he slid his smartphone from his pocket and checked the time. “I should be on my way, I’ve monopolized enough of your time tonight. I apologize.”

“Nah, it was nice. If it wasn’t closing time I’d ask ya to stay.”

Harry took a moment to try to believe that. Then he slid from the stool and emptied his wallet. Even with the dread of going home settling back into his bones, Harry felt good. He smiled as he nodded, “It was nice.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Harry! There are you!” James exclaimed.

“Here I am,” Harry said, extending a bottle of red wine. “Picked up your favourite.”

“Oh, you make my knees weak Harry darling,” he teased. As he did every time. “Come on in. Percy cooked tonight. Lasagne alla bolognese.”

Harry hummed as he slid out of his brogues. “Sounds delightful. Is Percival still trying to teach you Italian?”

“Sass me and I'll cook your pene myself, you bastard.” James laughed as he led Harry to the dining room, pushing rollerblades and sports pads out of the way with an instinctive foot. 

“Such language. You wouldn’t want the darling to pick up something like that,” Harry scolded, glancing around to try to find his missing goddaughter.

“I can say whatever I want tonight; Amara’s having a cousins’ day out.” Percival’s niece was often around the house, and she took an active part in the child’s life. The pair was inseparable.

“That’s too bad. I miss her dearly.” Harry straightened a knife when they reached the dining table. Then he looked up, realization dawning. “Sleepover, then?”

James nodded wordlessly, grin in place. Harry shook his head. “Your poor liver.”

“You’re one to talk,” James sang as he left him, sashaying into the kitchen to check on the lasagna. “I do it once a  _ month _ .”

  
  


Harry and James had met years ago. Eighteen and a half, to be exact. Harry was working for his current company’s competitor, bright eyed and ready to climb through the ranks. He trained James, taught him everything he knew- or so Harry liked to gloat. James may have been a couple years younger, but he knew the trade. And that showed, as he was more than a couple of ranks above Harry these days. And he would have gone higher if it weren’t for Amara.

 

Percival worked in a small but prestigious tailor shop on Savile row. That was where he met his husband; James was speaking with the middle aged tailor behind the counter, prepared to order a bespoke suit in honour of his latest promotion, and Percival strode through the front door. He almost walked right past to the back, oblivious to the love and life he would have missed. But something made him turn, double take, stop in his tracks.

“Hello there,” the handsome young man had purred, broad grin in place. “James Spencer. I’m here for a fitting, would you do the honours?”

“... Of course. Percival Morton,” he said, stepping closer and extending his hand. Percival later told Harry, in a wine-tizzied burst of uncharacteristic romance, that the handshake had crackled with electricity. That he knew from that moment he was meant to be with James. “I believe fitting room one is available.”

“Brilliant,” James grinned. He held his head high as he followed his future lover through the small shop, exuding a confidence in himself that said he already had a thorough courting in mind. James stood in front of the mirror, waiting patiently as Percival locked the door and prepared.

“Leave your things on the chair and stand right there, if you would.” Percival nodded at him and shed his own jacket. James felt a little light headed. “Relax your arms. Just stand as you would naturally.”

(“I was puffing up like a peacock and I didn’t even notice!” James would guffaw years later.)

Percival naturally wasn’t much of a conversationalist, but James filled the gaps happily. He talked about his job, inquired about tailoring, boasted about his promotion, asked about the delicious suit his new friend was wearing. And during the times when Percival’s attention was clearly needed, he simply watched. James figured he was about half an inch taller, but Percival was a bit broader. His hair was neatly combed, and his suit fit like a glove. He wore rectangular glasses- which seemed to be irritating him somehow. Every few minutes he would pull a face, adjust his glasses, hold the rims for a moment. James wouldn’t have noticed if it wasn’t seemingly souring his new infatuation’s mood.

“Are your glasses bothering you, Mr Morton?”

“Oh. A bit, yes.” He smiled as he slid them off. It took physical effort not to coo in delight; Percival had the most adorably boyish face, even though he must have been about five years older. “I supposed I could take them off. I’ll just have to get a bit closer.”

James nodded, quickly trying to come up with a witty response. But all hope was lost when Percival dropped to his knees in front of him.

He seemed be enjoying himself down there, taking his sweet time. Now James refused to watch him work, instead favouring the ceiling. He was tracing the line where wallpaper met corner for the seventh time when a knock on the door startled him. Percival sighed.

“I’m very sorry,” he said, moving to stand.

“Oh, no, don’t stop what you’re doing-” James blurted out, knowing he didn’t want the fitting to end before he really thought on his words. “I don’t mind him coming in.”

“As you wish,” Percival smiled. “Come in.”

The scrape of a lock was matched by Percy threading the measuring tape through his fingers and lining it along his inner leg. James’s breath caught, and suddenly he wanted to take his words back.

“Arthur isn’t happy,” the graying tailor told him, poking his head into the room. Percival glanced up, keeping his hands extended towards James’s inseam. Whoever Arthur was, this threat didn’t seem to worry him.

“Tell Arthur a customer has requested my services, and I will join the meeting when we’re finished.”

“I’ve told him.” The tailor glanced at James as Percival noted the measurement. “He isn’t happy.”

Percival sighed and lowered the tape. “He often isn’t. In fact, I can’t think of a time when he’s notably been otherwise. I’d hate to upset his routine by cutting this enjoyable fitting short.”

James grinned brightly, looking towards the older tailor to see his reaction. The man smiled a knowing smile and shook his head. “I’ll pass your sentiments along.”

“Much appreciated.” Percival finished whatever he was doing, standing when the tailor closed the door on them. James would later tell Harry, that night in fact, that the critical eye Percy dragged over him left him flustered, breathless, and thankful his inseam was already measured. “Have you considered a tweed, sir?”

  
  


“You seem in better spirits already,” James grinned. “More so than usual.”

“James,” Percival scolded, though his voice was already soaked with affection and warmed by alcohol. After a single glass he never seemed to be able to hold on to the control he tried to keep over himself and his husband. He was almost the entirety of James’s impulse control, so Harry tended to drink slowly when they had their childless visits.

“I had a good night,” Harry mused. He plucked a cashew from the bowl in his lap and chewed slowly. “You remember The Daisy Lounge?”

“How could I forget?” James’s eyes sparkled mischievously. Unspoken memories passed between them. A younger pair of friends pub crawling until they settled into a quieter, more sophisticated establishment. Dredging the corners of a lowly lit room for handsome older men willing to buy them their drinks. James ending up on someone’s lap, attached at the mouth, and Harry sometimes even venturing to a strange home. Those times were long gone; he’d stopped when Joseph officially began his courting, and James had settled down significantly since then. James took his husband’s hand and rubbed his knuckles with his thumb. “You went back? I don’t imagine you’re looking for the same things anymore.”

“No, not at all,” Harry agreed. “But I did have a nice time. It hasn’t changed a bit, really.”

“Still have those dreadful yellow hanging bits?” Harry nodded somberly, and Percival raised a confused eyebrow. James gagged. “God, Percy, they’re supposed to be lights I think. But they don’t give off anything other than tackiness.”

Harry snorted. “I think they even recreated them.”

“Blasphemy, that’s what that is.” James shook his head and took a large gulp of wine. “So why was that such a nice night? Drinking alone, phallic symbols, purple upholstery.”

“Well, I wasn’t really alone.”

“What?” James sat forward abruptly, nearly causing Percival to spill his drink. His husband sighed and set his glass down. James paid no attention to him, instead narrowing his eyes at Harry. A million questions seemed on the tip of his tongue, but the only one that came out was: “Who went with you?”

“No one,” Harry supplied immediately. “That is, I met someone there.”

“Harry-”

“No no, not like that,” Harry chuckled. He moved the bowl from one knee to the other, then leaned forward to place it on the coffee table. “I went to a couple bars, but the atmosphere was all wrong. I don’t really know what I was looking for. Then I walked past the Daisy and… something felt right.”

“Go on, go on,” James prompted.

“It was a quiet night. A couple guys in the back on those awful leather sofas. Only one young hopeful sat between them.” James granted him a laugh, still on the edge of his seat. “So I sat at the bar. What else am I going to other than drown my sorrows?”

“Of course.” After a moment’s pause, James cut in, “Don’t tell me you hit it off with Old Millie.”

“I’m telling you, it was completely innocent,” Harry defended. Even Percival snorted at the insinuation. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I think Mills has retired.”

“Oh no.” James looked genuinely distraught at this news, though he hadn’t visited her since his bachelor party about twelve years ago. He looked down into his wine glass. Whatever woes he found in the dark liquid he immediately drained. He motioned for Harry to continue as he refilled his glass.

“The new bartender is very nice. We had a chat.”

“A chat,” James repeated, sceptical eyebrow raised. “What are they like?”

“Young. Funny.” Harry reached forward and took a handful of nuts. He didn't know why he felt so nervous- he had no reason to be. But nonetheless he was shoving almonds and walnuts into his mouth three at a time. “He was a good listener.”

“Ahhh.” His friends gave each other a silent glance, and Percival nodded. “Is he handsome?”

“He's really too young for me to say,” Harry argued dryly. He tossed the final peanut into his mouth and swallowed. “But… yes. And quite the strapping young man.”

“And you guys had a  _ chat _ ?”

“Indeed. I was pretty heavily intoxicated by the time I found my way there. He was a good sport.”

Suddenly, Percival's hand darted out and landed on James's sleeve. James was confused, looking into Percival's wide eyes, but soon realization dawned on him and he asked, “Did he have a strange name?”

“I….” Harry's blood ran cold. “Why, I didn't ask his name. How absolutely wretched of me. Why do you ask?”

James's smile was devilish. Never a good sign. But Harry knew he wouldn't get much out of him, so he didn't argue when all he got in reply was: “Ah, no reason. What did he look like in those purple slacks?”

“Anyway,” Harry said, standing suddenly and picking up his glass. “I think dinner has waited long enough. Shall we?”

James remained seated. He stared at Harry for a long moment, until Harry itched to fix his hair or straighten his collar. Then he seemed pleased with whatever he found, rose, and made some casual joke about Harry spoiling his dinner with tree nuts.

 

Harry hummed appreciatively as he cut into his second slice of lasagna. Percival was truly dedicated to his work (he was often found working late into the night, or going on trips to cater to the needs of high profile customers all over the world), but his second passion was food. He was a masterful cook. Anything he attempted came out nearly perfect, and Harry was more than happy to maintain a regular quality check to assure he didn’t drop below expectations.

“How is your niece doing, Percival?”

“Ah, young Roxanne,” he mused happily. He was well into his second glass, and though he wasn’t appreciating his food as much as Harry was, the mood was pleasant. “She’s doing wonderfully. So dedicated to her studies. Straight As.”

“And she’s keeping healthy, too,” James added, talking around a mouthful of noodle. “That regiment you’ve put her on. It’s like you’re training her for the apocalypse.”

Percival actually laughed. “You can never be too prepared, my sweet.”

“I agree,” Harry said.

“Well, sure. You’ve been following the same monster plan for years.” James eyed him suspiciously. “Though I think you’re a cheater, Harry darling.”

“I would never.” Harry placed a hand over his heart, feigning offence. “I’ve followed Percival’s instructions to a tee. I just… took out the really harsh stuff.”

“Aha!” James tossed an olive across the table, leaving a wet patch on Harry’s lapel. “The harsh stuff is the whole  _ point _ .”

“Well, I disagree,” Harry said before putting another large forkful of pasta in his mouth. He hesitated as he sliced another off, staring guiltily at it. “Though… maybe I could put some of it back in.”

“It couldn’t hurt,” Percival granted. He hadn’t really pushed Harry in the last five years, not like he used to. He probably figured Harry had found what worked for him and let fate cover the rest. Harry put his fork down.

“Would you like to go to the gym with me soon?”

Percival smiled. “I’m away on business for most of the week, but come Thursday I’m all yours.”

“Good riddance to the both of you,” James muttered into his glass.

  
  
  


Dinner was finished, dessert enjoyed, and another drink shared in casual conversation. When Roxy called her uncle to check in, James was inebriated enough to tackle the dishes right away.

“Shit,” James muttered. He stopped the faucet and threw open the lower cupboard doors. Percival leaned in behind him to peer under the sink at the water dripping towards his feet. “There’s a leak.”

“Turn the water off. I’ll leave a message for the repairman after Roxanne checks on Amara.”

“Nonsense, let me help,” Harry said, pushing away from the table.

“You’re a plumber now?”

“I’m handy. My husband may be well off, but that doesn’t mean he’ll pay for anything.” Harry’s voice was light, in the restrained way his friends had come to associate with Joseph. He took off his suit jacket and clapped his hands together. “Let me take a look.”

  
  


They were a good couple, James and Percival. A happy couple. The pair complimented each other, and parenting Amara seemed an easy task with such a fitting companion. By the end of his visits, watching his best friends simply being in love and admiring their child together, Harry always left with an ache in his chest. He ached for what wasn’t, and what could have been.

  
  
  
  


“Go fish,” Eggsy declared happily. He'd had his ass kicked five times already, but he could feel this win in his bones. Roxy shook her head and picked up a card, smiling immediately after. He groaned. “Amara, got any twos?”

“Go fish!” The young girl grinned as he huffed and picked up a five. No help to him.

“Why are you two so good at this? It ain't fair.”

“It's perfectly fair, Eggsy,” Roxy countered, lining up her pairs perfectly in front of her. “Perhaps we're just benefiting from being the superior sex.”

“You must be. There's no other excuse for me being so shite at a game like this.” Eggsy surrendered two cards and picked up another. On second thought, maybe winning wasn’t so important after all. “... Got any kings?”

Amara snickered.

  
  


“Alright, I think we need a different game.”

“I think  _ you _ need a different game,” Roxy teased as she shuffled the deck expertly.

“I've got Uno,” Amara supplied, a sadistic twinkle in her eye.

“Dear god, no. I want to be able to look you ladies in the eyes by the end of the night.” Eggsy stood and ambled to the kitchen, dejected. He was still shuffling around with dishes when the doorbell rang, and he returned to the couch with a pizza box in hand- victorious at last.

Eggsy yanked the box out of Roxy's reach when she went to take a piece. He taunted, “Go fish.”

“That’s my line, Eggsy.” She quickly plucked a slice from the box before he could change his mind. “Or Amara’s. Feels good, doesn’t it?”

“You’re lucky I love you,” Eggsy said, rolling his eyes. Then he held the box towards Amara with a grin. “And I’m just afraid you’ll kick my arse.”

  
  


They chatted as they ate, talking too loudly over the television in the background. Slowly conversation lulled as the sun set and their show ended. Amara picked up one of her braids and rolled it between her fingers, as she did whenever she was thinking. A habit she'd had for years.

“I’m going to look for the shirt,” she said. It was an old thing, something Eggsy had had since he was a little older than her. The design on the front was faded into something unrecognizable, and the deep blue colour had washed out to a muted imitation of its former glory. Amara loved it. She wore it every time she visited, often ending up curled into herself and dozing off in the corner. When this started, it almost reached her toes. Now it rested above the knee.

They watched as Amara slid the plate off her lap and ambled down the hallway. Then Roxy hauled herself a cushion closer and leaned in. “Alright, now let's talk the fun stuff.”

“Like what?” Eggsy asked, laughter in his voice. “Your gym goons or my avoiding Rottie's texts again?”

Roxy rolled her eyes. “That's not a very good attitude.”

“Oh!” Eggsy exclaimed abruptly. “I do sort of have a story.”

“Tell me, tell me,” Roxy prompted. “Did you see Janelle?”

“Nah, nothing that intense. Besides, that one sailed long ago.” Eggsy grabbed the last slice and closed the pizza box. “A bloke came into the lounge last night.”

“Hm, actual business. How strange.”

“That wasn't the weird part,” Eggsy scolded through a mouthful of cheese. “He sat and talked with me. Pretty gloomy dude. At first.”

“At first?”

“Yeah. Then I think he talked about his dick.”

Roxy snorted into her fruit punch. “Amara could come back at any moment, Eggsy.”

“She’s nine now, bout time she learned the ways of the world.”

“I wholeheartedly disagree. But go on.”

“He was a fit bloke. Stayed and talked until closing time. Sweet guy.”

“ _ Eggsy _ ,” Roxy crowed. “Getting back in the game?”

“He was gloomy about his husband.”

Roxy crossed her arms and sat back. “Damn you and your shining morals.”


	3. Chapter 3

It had been many years since Harry’d had a real, proper hangover. If he had to wager, he would have said it was about fifteen years since he’d last dashed to the bathroom and partaken in the hair of the dog. His nights at the Spencer-Morton household rarely came close to reminding him of the feeling. So the next morning he woke only slightly groggier than usual, freshened up, dressed in the dark, and put the kettle on for himself. Soon he would throw the curtains open in the bedroom to wake Joseph, and begin the silent trek to the coffee shop for him.

Harry sat at the island with a cup of tea and a novel. He missed the Sun. It wasn’t exactly the most eloquent expression of society and its inner workings, but he’d always enjoyed reading the outrageous articles. He had tried to stand up for his subscription; his husband was adamant in his decision that it was pointless. It was all trash and fluff, he said, and he could get his news online if he really needed it. They still received a weekly edition of a more respectable paper, mind. But it was a matter of principle, so Harry read novels.

At eight sharp (noted on the wall clock, not his watch) Harry tossed the rest of the water and went upstairs to wake sleeping beauty. He drew the curtains and cracked a window, to which he only received a garbled groan.

“Good morning,” he offered, hovering by the bed.

“Fuck off,” Joseph griped from under his cocoon of blankets. He never was a morning person. Harry snorted and threw open the wardrobe. Joseph’s suit for the day was hung pristinely in the middle, recently dry cleaned and pressed. Harry plucked his own jacket from its hanger and slid into it.

Harry's walk to the coffee shop was refreshing on the best of days. It was cloudy, as was expected, and overall completely average. He greeted the woman who was always watering her lawn, and the man who was always trimming hedges. Smiled at a child on a scooter, waved to the teen grumpily waiting to drive. It was domestic. It was nice.

Harry no longer winced when he railed off that he wanted a ‘triple, venti, half sweet, non-fat, caramel macchiato.’ Even the barista no longer rolled her eyes and passive aggressively asked for his name.

He’d been doing this for an odd fifteen years. The routine was a comfort.

Harry toed off his shoes and crossed the sitting room to find Joseph at the kitchen table, nose buried in his newspaper.

“Good morning,” Harry greeted, placing the paper cup beside his plate. Joseph nodded distractedly.

Morning duties done, Harry collected his briefcase and left for work. He usually arrived an hour before his husband. He set out his own work, checked Joseph’s answering machine, and pointedly avoided the third drawer of his husband’s desk.

  
  


About eight years ago, Harry stumbled across a file he wasn’t meant to find. That was around the time he had officially started taking over the duties of Joseph’s secretary, without the title or extra pay. His husband was going out to lunch with investors and casually mentioned (twice) that his office could use a thorough cleaning. Not willing to disappoint, Harry wished him luck and scurried back into his office.

He reshelved books, organized filing cabinets, watered plants. Eventually he came to Joseph’s desk, which always turned to a bit of a shit show if he was left to his own devices for too long without a meeting to require tidiness. Harry thought nothing of it as he picked up pens and shuffled papers into neat piles. He lifted a file folder marked with the name and information of an account, uncovering another without the official jargon. It was blank, save for the tab on the edge- ‘ _ Personal _ .’

Harry hesitated. It was absolutely against the rules to go snooping through the property of a coworker, and a superior. Legally, morally- it was wrong. And the placement of the file was nothing he should be overthinking… but something in the back of his mind shouted that it was a pisspoor attempt at hiding.

How bad is it, really, Harry asked himself, if I’m just looking through the personal details of my own husband?

Harry glanced at the closed door and back at the file. He carefully flipped it open. His eyes skimmed the numbers, not comprehending at first. It wasn’t what he had expected at all. What had he expected?

Not account transfers. Not hundreds, thousands of dollars being funneled from various departments to Joseph’s pocket. No, never that. Harry thought of the house. The new house. The one they had just bought a couple months before, the one they still lived in eight years later. It was big, spacious, modern- and now that he thought on it, far too fancy even for the Ambroses. Had he really wanted to be spoiled so badly that he let it all fly over his head?

Harry’s eyes frantically jumped down the page. He turned the first, and then the next, and the next- how long had he been doing this? How much of Harry’s lifestyle was thanks to theft and fraud?

Muffled laughter outside the door startled Harry from his thoughts. He replaced the pages and closed the folder, putting the innocent one on top again. He lined the folders up next to the stack of paper. And then he nearly sprinted from the room.

He didn’t try to talk to Joseph when he came back from lunch and disappeared into his office. He didn’t seek him out and therefore he was not seen, so it was easy to slip away at the earliest possible moment and leave the building. He threw his briefcase into his car (his own- it wouldn’t be missed, as Joseph took a cab every day so he could work on his own hours) and sat there for a moment. He was breathing hard, he realized, and gripping the steering wheel with white knuckled hands. Harry sat there for ten minutes, or it could have been an hour, before peeling out of the parking lot and driving to the only place his panicked mind wanted to go.

 

“Harry darling?” James asked worriedly. “What happened? Are you okay? Come in!”

Percival appeared in the hallway, a baby in his arms. He took one look at the expression on Harry’s face and turned back around, saying only, “Tea.”

James ushered Harry into the kitchen with an arm around him. They sat at the table as Percival bustled, still holding Amara to his chest. James took Harry’s hands, trying to prompt him into talking.

“It’s Joseph- he- I just saw-” Harry found it even more difficult to breathe, and the conflicting emotions he saw in his friend’s eyes wasn’t helping. The squeeze on his fingers did make him feel better. “Joseph….”

“Harry,” Percival deadpanned, appearing behind James’s chair with a lethally serious face. “What did he do to you?”

Harry’s chest heaved as he looked into his dark, angry eyes. He thought he might throw up. He knew his friends wouldn’t be angry if he did. “... He bought me a fucking house.”

“A house?” James asked.

“A fucking house.”

“We knew that,” he nodded, looking as though he feared more for his sanity than his physical health now. “Why are you upset, Harry darling?”

“He- Joseph…. He’s laundering money.” Harry took a shuddering breath and pulled a hand away, running it through his combed hair roughly.

“How do you know?” Percival asked.

“I was cleaning his office…. I wasn’t supposed to see it, but I did.” Percival put his free hand on James’s shoulder, who stood to switch places and take Amara. Percy laced his fingers together atop the table and nodded, encouraging Harry to continue.

“What did you see?”

“It was… a history. Of all the illegal things. You know… transfers, mysteriously disappearing budget cuts. I think I even saw extra holiday bonuses.”

“Harry,” Percival murmured, voice soft but still harbouring a simmering fury. “This is very serious. Are you certain this is what you saw?”

“Yes,” Harry breathed.

“And he gave this money to himself, and only himself?”

“I can’t be sure, but I didn’t see anyone else in the file.”

“There is no way you could be incriminated?”

“I didn’t know about it until today!” Harry’s voice was high with panic. He was thirty two years old and his husband was stealing fortunes from their company. He thought this only ever happened in the movies.

“Of course you didn’t, Harry.” Percival put a heavy hand on his shoulder for a moment. “But you need to think. Has he ever had you sign or agree to anything suspicious, or even remotely out of the ordinary? Any way he could be funneling you money without you knowing?”

Harry searched his mind, trying desperately to think of anything that could help or hurt. “... No, I can’t think of anything.”

“That’s good. Until this point, you have plausible deniability.”

“Until this point?”

Percival glanced back, locking eyes with James. His expression stayed the same (hard, neutral), and James’s was still worried. “Now you know about it.”

James slid a mug in front of Harry’s hands, but he paid no attention to it. “What do I do now?”

“You need to tell someone,” James said as he slid into the seat on the other side of his husband.

“I can’t do that!” Harry’s heart was beating inside his chest faster than it had since he was fifteen and running laps for school, running from bullies. “I can’t. He’ll- I don’t know what he’ll do! James.”

James’s eyes softened and he reached across the table to cover his hand. “We can keep you safe, we’ll do everything we can.”

“No no no,” Harry shook his head. “I can’t do that to him. He’s my husband, James, I wasn’t ever supposed to find it-”

“... He told us. That is enough.” Harry’s shoulders drooped in relief as he looked back into Percival’s unreadable eyes. “For now.”

 

Harry knew he kept that file in the bottom drawer of his desk. He knew that it was unlocked, last he checked, and that anything else he could potentially find in that drawer would not make him happy. So he avoided it, and left another reminder for the day’s appointments.

“Good morning,” Harry nodded as Joseph walked past him into his office. He had his phone pressed to one ear, and his overpriced coffee in the other hand. He was a very busy man.

  
  
  
  


It took two nights of lying awake, staring at the ceiling, for Harry to come to the conclusion that he had to go back. He had to do something, he corrected himself, he had simply become too bored with his routine. So on the third night Harry strolled casually through the door of The Daisy and up to the bar. This time it was the first establishment he visited, and he’d yet to have anything alcoholic. When the bartender turned to greet him, Harry was rather distraught to find that he was even more devastatingly attractive than he was when he was three sheets to the wind.

“Oh, it’s good to have you back!” The bartender sounded genuine, his smile bright. “I was worried it was just a oneshot.”

“Worry not,” Harry assured him as he slid into his seat. He’d really hoped the young man was improved via beer goggles the other night. This was not the case at all. With his features no longer swimming, they settled into an exceptionally pleasing arrangement. “I couldn’t stay away.”

“Same as last night?” He reached for a tumbler. Harry couldn’t remember what he ordered for the life of him.

“I’ll have a Guinness, please.”

“Switching it up.” Eggsy produced a tall glass and prepared his pint.

“I fancy myself rather spontaneous,” Harry lied.

Eggsy looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. Then he chuckled darkly, suspiciously. “I bet you do, Harry Bright.”

Harry nearly missed the reference as he accepted his perfectly frothy drink. His head jerked up much like a deer caught in the headlights. “Pardon?”

“Nothing, bruv. Just a joke.”

“How did you….” Harry narrowed his eyes. The boyish, stylish disarray of the bartender’s hair was quite distracting. “Do you know me?”

“Sure, you came in a few days ago.” The man grinned cheekily before giving in. “Nah. But I’d like to.”

“I’m Harry Hart,” he supplied. The words came out smoothly and without hesitation. He hadn’t been Harry Hart for nearly twenty years. That was another thing the prick had taken from him. Despite the confusion at himself, it felt strangely good to say it again. His chest swelled with satisfaction. That was who he was- Harry Hart. Harry Ambrose was a made up man. He was glad that the first thing this young man knew was his true self, however sullied he may be.

“No shit, yeah? Harry Bright was close.”

“... Indeed,” he said, still unsure what the name meant.

“I’m Gary Unwin,” the bartender quipped cheerfully, shaking Harry’s hand. “But everyone important calls me Eggsy.”

“Everyone important,” Harry repeated, voice silky with humour. “May I have the honour?”

“I would be offended if you Gary-ed me.”

“It happens often then?”

“All the time. It's almost like people don't love my name or something,” Eggsy pretended to lament, propping his chin on his hand sadly. “You like it, don’t ya Mr Hart?”

“Eggsy,” Harry said carefully, tasting it on his tongue. Oh yes, he liked it very much. So unique- he’d never known an Eggsy before. But familiar in the most enchanting way. It was  _ strange _ , but it was perfect. “Why yes, I believe I do.”

Harry didn’t stay until closing time, unlike his first night. And he was only tipsy when he left. But he enjoyed himself very much sharing light, happy conversation with this young man- this  _ Eggsy.  _ It was easy, it required no tiptoeing. He thought that maybe he would have to add another, less monotone routine to his week.

  
  
  


Two nights later, he found himself back on the same stool. He was beginning to think of it as his, now. He was talking to Eggsy between other patrons giving orders. Rush hour wound down until there was only a couple of loiterers in the back corner, and their riveting conversation on the nuances of viewing mainstream children’s shows versus being subjected to ancient torture devices ended in a burst of laughter. Before a comfortable silence could settle between them, Eggsy’s hip vibrated.

“You mind?” Eggsy asked, sliding his phone halfway out of his pocket.

“Not at all,” Harry nodded. “No one’s here to scold you about it.”

“Thanks, guv. My little sister’s been mad sick lately, I’ve been really stressing out about it.”

“Oh no,” Harry frowned, “is it serious?”

Eggsy sighed as he read the text message. “It was just Jamal. Nah, don’t think so. Probably just the flu. But it’s scary, you know? Being away from her, knowing she’s not well. I can’t stand it.”

“I’m sure she’ll be fine.” Harry paused hesitantly before reaching out and placing a reassuring hand on Eggsy’s arm. “Those germs wouldn’t dare hurt her, not when she has a big brother like you.”

“I think I’ve used that line on her!” Eggsy’s big smile was back in place, and Harry was glad for it.

“Really?”

“Great minds think alike.”

“But fools rarely differ,” Harry finished for him. He raised his glass as Eggsy scoffed. “Tell me about your sister.”

Eggsy looked surprised for a moment, but then he broke out into a grin. “Oh, I love her. She’s the light of my life, really. She’s only four, but she’s got a big personality. I skype her before my shifts.”

“That’s sweet,” Harry murmured. It was heartwarming to see Eggsy talk so passionately about his sister. It also tightened his heart in a painful way, reminding him of the empty nest he’d been forced to have. “I can tell you’re her biggest fan.”

“You’d be surprised.  _ Everyone _ loves Daisy.”

Harry froze for a second, confused. Then he picked up the napkin from under his glass and raised it to eye level. “As in…?”

“Oh yes, mum absolutely  _ loves _ that I work at a gay bar with the same name as my baby sister,” Eggsy groaned. He snatched the purple and yellow napkin from Harry, crumpling its calligraphy;  _ The Daisy Lounge _ . “Dais loves it, though. She doesn’t really understand, of course. Always asks me how my Daisy is doing. I say, ‘I don’t know, how are you, my flower?’ She gets a giggle outta that.”

“That is  _ sickeningly _ cute,” Harry crooned. “I love it.”

“Would you like to see a picture of her?” Eggsy asked excitedly. When Harry nodded, he swiped open his phone again and placed it on the bar. The first photo Eggsy showed him was of the two of them in a park. Eggsy was wearing some awful jacket that would make anyone with a fashion sense shudder; Harry noted that it went rather well with his blond-ish hair somehow, and he hoped that Eggsy would dye it again. The trees were turning red and brown, and Eggsy was sat in a pile of leaves, arms encircling the smallest child Harry had seen in ages. She had the same shade of brunette hair that Eggsy had now, and she was bundled up comically in vibrant layers.

“She has your smile,” Harry commented, glancing up to see it. He thought he could see Eggsy blushing too, but dismissed it due to lighting. “She’s adorable.”

“Isn’t she? In this next one it was her birthday, and all she said she wanted was a proper teddy.” Harry laughed out loud when he swiped to the next picture. In this one Eggsy was wearing a black fitted polo much like the deep purple one of his uniform. Harry could see an impressive bicep (and refused to check out the real thing just yet), but the rest of him was hidden behind the enormous teddy bear he was holding over his sister. She was mid-laugh, holding the drooping arms of the doll above her head. Eggsy swiped again and his past self had dropped the bear, carefully letting it fall on top of her. Somewhere between that picture and the next his flat brimmed hat was knocked off, and he was sitting on the ground as Daisy triumphantly lifted her teddy as high as she could. “Took me ages to save up for that. It was so worth her reaction. Sleeps on it still.”

“You said you had to move away. What did you do before the lounge?”

“Oh,” Eggsy breathed, suddenly avoiding his gaze, “y’know, odd jobs.”

“What kind?” Harry asked in genuine interest.

“Nothing really,” Eggsy admitted. “... Nothing good.”

“Ah,” he nodded. “Nothing you’d put on the resume?”

“You could say that. Need a top up?”

“Please.” Harry pushed his glass forward. Eggsy mixed him another drink and asked if he wanted to see more pictures, if he had nothing better to do. 

 

After a long, anticlimactic story about a faux tea party (thanks to an adorable selfie featuring two siblings in tiaras) Eggsy swiped to a picture of a girl around his age. She was rolling her eyes and a boy was sitting next to her, engrossed in whatever video game he was playing off screen. He passed that photograph without explanation.

“Who’s that?” Harry asked. Eggsy returned to it.

“Oh, she’s my ex-girlfriend. And that’s her cousin, my mate Jamal. But don’t worry, bruv, there’s nothing there still.”

“Ah,” Harry breathed, trying to hide the unfounded disappointment he felt. Eggsy’s eyes widened when he saw his shoulders fall.

“Yeah, but she ain’t nowhere near as bad as my last boyfriend,” Eggsy said quickly. “He was a right bastard, he was.”

“Oh?”

“Mhm. One of the few impolite posh blokes, believe it or not.”

“Oh, there's more than a few.” The blanket of bitterness he had grown so accustomed to settled over him, with a strange twinge of something less familiar. “I’d say they might be the majority, however ironic that may be. You shouldn’t have to put up with that.”

“Well, I’m not anymore,” Eggsy shrugged.

“I’m glad. On behalf of all ‘posh blokes’ everywhere,” here Harry closed his eyes and bowed his head mournfully, “I am very sorry for his misconduct.”

Eggsy cracked up. “If he was half the gentleman you are, we’d still be going. Or a quarter as funny.”

Harry smiled as he raised his glass to his lips. If his face was flushed, he wouldn’t admit it.


	4. Chapter 4

“Do you do drugs, Harry?”

Harry nearly choked on his drink at the abrupt question. He raised an eyebrow humorously and wiped at his smirk. “I could be a cop, for all you know.”

“Nah, you’re a pencil pusher down at Brogue’s,” Eggsy grinned. He finished wiping the counter and tossed the rag underneath.

“A clever ploy,” Harry countered, tilting his glass conversationally. “Clearly I was placed here, an unpopular lounge for older homosexual men, undercover in order to find a connection to the latest big drug kingpin dealing to the youths. I could arrest you right on the spot.”

“Sure, Harry,” Eggsy lilted in a way that said  _ tell yourself that _ . “Either way- admit it, I’m too cute to arrest.”

“You’re too pretty for prison,” Harry agreed before finishing off his fifth drink of the night. Steadily, his embarrassment at complimenting Eggsy and the accidental nature of it was wearing off. Whether it was because of alcohol or not, Harry didn’t really want to know. He did know for certain that sentence would never have come out of a sober Harry’s mouth. “But no, that was a slippery slope I managed to keep myself away from. Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” Eggsy said, faux-casual. He was already moving to mix another drink- anything to avoid eye contact.

“... Do you do drugs, Eggsy?”

“I may have… partaken,” he said carefully. “In the past.”

“There’s no reason to be ashamed of that, Eggsy.” Harry tried his best to make the words sound sincere, despite the considerable amount of gin the bartender had managed to funnel into him. “You’re young. How do you millennials say it… you only live once?”

Eggsy barked in laughter. “We might. But please, don’t ever say that again.”

“I hesitantly agree.”

“Ya see, it was really my friends pushing me to do it,” Eggsy said as he leaned against the counter. His face was only inches away, and Harry watched as the last of his smile fell from his lips. “Ryan and Jamal. They’re really aces, great blokes. Home life helped my choices though, and not for the best. Now I’m… ah, on the straight and narrow, you could say.”

“I suppose,” Harry agreed. He felt a little too lightheaded to make a joke, but he hoped the expression on his face did the job.

“Oh, shut up.” Eggsy rolled his eyes goodnaturedly. “They get that I don’t like it anymore. So they don't push me.”

“Do you ever miss it?”

“Sometimes. The gentle stuff. A joint and some game shows at Ryan’s.” Eggsy snorted and straightened up. “Not enough to go back.”

Harry remained silent for the moment, sipping his martini, but his expression seemed to ask the questions he was planning.

“I just…. I like to know that the people I….” Eggsy was increasingly thankful that Harry had an open tab and a willing pallet. He seemed to only half notice his discomfort. He lamely finished the sentence, “That they don’t do that kinda stuff, yeah?”

“That kind of stuff?”

“Don't play dumb with me now, Harry. You're tipsy, not smashed.”

“I just find it strange you're so adverse to it. I was under the impression young adults were open to this sort of recreational activities.”

Eggsy swiped his old glass, glancing at the clock behind him. “I know. And believe me, at one point I was more than open to it. I just want to be responsible. And safe. Consistent… for Dais.”

Harry smiled. Eggsy’s lips lifted of their own accord as he stared back at him, watching the fondness and warmth spread over Harry’s face unhindered by his natural melancholy. Eggsy rather liked seeing Harry so… free. And not only because of the looks he gave him, Eggsy was sure to defend to himself. He seemed so much happier after settling into his seat and ordering a couple. He forgot about work, and home, and everything between. He was rather handsome when he smiled. And he was radiant when his eyes softened like that.

“That’s so sweet of you,” Harry said, and Eggsy’s heart jumped.

“She deserves it,” he deflected, turning to hide his blush and put the glass away.

“I’m certain she does.” When Eggsy looked towards him again, Harry’s expression had smoothed out. And in his state, he wasn’t shy about openly staring at him as he worked out whatever was on his mind. It occurred to Eggsy that maybe he was wondering why having a sober influence was so important for Daisy. For once, for some reason, Eggsy felt no shame when realizing this posh bloke was putting together the pieces about his family.

  
  
  


Eggsy always felt a little bit out of place walking through the fancy neighbourhood Roxy’s uncles lived in. Manicured lawns, fancy houses, kids playing outside unsupervised. It was quaint, sure, and no one ever said anything to him about being an outsider- but it was different from his life. Thankfully, he felt much more comfortable inside the Spencer-Morton house.

He didn’t come around often, but on the occasions that he did they made him feel welcome. Eggsy thought it was entirely possible he could grow to think of the place as a second home, if given the opportunity. James smiled and laughed and clapped him on the back. Percival fed him and listened and told the most interesting stories. Amara was a beacon of sunshine in the house. She was loud and quiet and happy and treated him like an older brother. And Roxy was always great.

They were a family. The kind Eggsy always wanted to have.

 

Roxy had spent the night at her uncles’ house. His mother didn’t need her to work for another few hours, so she invited him over to eat Percival’s leftovers and watch a movie.

“You would not believe the heaven on earth he served me yesterday,” Roxy declared, bending to scavenge through the refrigerator. “It tasted like an orgasm. In my mouth.”

Eggsy snorted, swinging his feet. He was sitting on the countertop next to her, something he wouldn’t have the bollocks to do if her uncles were home. “That’s sick, Rox.”

“I can be as vulgar as I want, I ate quail last night,” Roxy sniffed as if that made perfect sense. She produced a tupperware filled with what he would have called chicken at first glance. “Aha! Hardly any left. Take this.”

Eggsy popped the lid as she dug for something else. He took a well seasoned chunk and bit into it, no longer hesitating where Percival’s cooking was concerned. Even though the meat was cold and rubbery, flavour burst into his mouth. He didn’t know all the fancy words to describe what he was tasting, but it was complex and very satisfying. Eggsy furrowed his brows as he tried to figure out the sweetness. “I hate that I love this.”

“Preaching to the choir,” Roxy murmured. She settled on a couple other tupperwares and a selection of cheeses, preparing a plate for both of them. She handed Eggsy his and guided him to the sitting room. “So… any news on the heartthrob?”

Usually, Eggsy would have responded to her teasing with a snide comment of his own. But this time he did have news, and he’d kept it to himself long enough. “He told me his name.”

“What is it?” Roxy managed to sound genuinely interested while simultaneously scrolling through Netflix and shoving brie into her mouth.

“Harry,” Eggsy said, enjoying the sound of it all too much. He wasn’t ashamed of the smile that slid onto his face of its own accord; Roxy was well aware that he had a bit of crush on his favourite customer, and the name left something sweet and warm in his chest. “Harry Hart. Ain’t that a perfectly posh name?”

“Harry Hart?” Roxy repeated. It sounded familiar. Too much so. Her mind immediately jumped to the first Harry she could think of- and with a jolt realized she couldn’t remember exactly what his name was prior to marriage.

“Yeah. H H.” Eggsy smiled. “I told him my name, and he didn’t even ask me to explain it.”

“Wait wait wait,” Roxy begged, shaking her head. “Tell me what he looks like again.”

“Tall, dark, and handsome,” Eggsy listed with a straight face. “He wears a suit every day, has brown hair that’s always in the poshest little flip.”

“And he’s married? Unhappily?”

“Yeah,” Eggsy granted, deflating slightly.

“What’s his husband’s name?”

“Fuck, I don’t know.” Eggsy ate a sauce covered vegetable, mulling it over. “Oh, wait. He was telling me this story the other day, he let it slip. Joseph!”

Roxy’s face blanched. Her mouth fell open as the pieces fell together. The two connections in her life that had never correlated- suddenly they were intertwined, and in the strangest way possible. “You’ve… got a boner for my uncle Harry?”

“What? No!” Eggsy looked as though he was between laughing and choking. Slowly his expression fell until it was blank with confusion. “What? No…. Wait. Ah- maybe?”

“Eggsy!”

“C’mon, Rox, it can’t be!” Eggsy dug his phone out of his pocket and fumbled as he tried to unlock it. “What are the odds, yeah? A million Harrys in London. Not to mention, this one is well fit and  _ so _ -”

“ _ Eggsy _ , I do not need to hear this!” Roxy scrubbed a hand over her face.

“Look, this is him,” Eggsy said, turning his phone towards her. He only had one photo of Harry, a candid of him slouching over the bar, fingering the lip of his glass, looking confused but immensely charming.

“Ack!” Roxy stood and pulled an album from the mantle, dropping it heavily in his lap. “Open that.”

“What is it?” Eggsy asked, sliding the decorative belt open and lifting the cover. The first photograph must have only been a couple years old; Roxy was wearing her hair up, she was in a pantsuit, and she was sat between two smiling uncles. The photo underneath was much the same, but a younger Amara was on her lap. “Real cute. What’s this got to do with anything?”

“Turn the page, Eggsy,” Roxy rolled her eyes, exasperated.

He did. And his breath caught. There was Harry, immortalized in photograph and held in place by thick cellophane. He looked exactly the same, if not a bit more chipper than he usually did upon arrival at the Daisy. He had an arm around James’s waist, who had a loose headlock on him. “Fuck.”

“Uncle Harry.”

“Stop saying that,” Eggsy griped, waving her away. He managed to tear his eyes away long enough to run a finger over the stack of pages. “How many pictures do you guys take?”

“They like to keep their albums in reverse chronological. Don’t ask me,” she said, raising her hands. Roxy threw herself back onto the couch and looked at the picture. “That was my twentieth birthday. Three years ago, now.”

Underneath the headlock, Harry was standing behind Roxy and beside James, who was holding a smaller Amara. Percival must have been taking the picture. Eggsy felt a panicky sort of frenzy at this familial revelation, but he quite enjoyed this chance to stare as much as he wanted.

“How many of these is he in?” Eggsy turned the page. Two out of four had Harry.

“Quite a few, I think.” Roxy sat beside him and leaned over his shoulder, giving him a dry side eye. “He is my uncle, after all.”

“... Biological?”

“No,” Roxy granted. Eggsy nodded in relief as he smiled at Harry being drawn on by baby Amara. “But it’s still strange.”

“It ain’t… bad though, yeah?” Eggsy stuck a thumb between the pages to hold his place and turned to face Roxy, concerned. “You don’t mind, do you? That I got a thing for him?”

Roxy smiled softly. “Do I have any choice?”

“Of course you do!” Eggsy threw an arm around Roxy’s shoulders, pulling her closer. “I wouldn’t do anythin to make you uncomfortable, Rox.”

“But at the same time… you wouldn’t be able to help it.”

Eggsy’s gaze strayed away from her, conflicted. His voice was much softer when he spoke again. “I… I know I ain’t known him long, but… I’m really gone for him. It’s a problem, Rox, I’m fucking over the moon for the guy and nothing can happen, yeah? I know that. But it’s- it’s just a crush, really. Pretty face, nice suit. I could stop it for you.”

“I really don’t mind, Eggsy, I promise.” She smiled and flipped the book open again. “I’ll never truly understand you romantic feeling-having people, but I think you two having each other is a great thing. Even if it can’t be… you know.”

“Aw, Rox,” Eggsy crooned. He pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Thank you so much. Means a lot.”

“Don’t make me gag,” she griped jokingly, pulling away.

“Now,” Eggsy said, rubbing his hands together, “they’ve got a pool in the back, I  _ know _ you’re hiding pool party pics from me.”

  
  
  
  


It had been over a month now since Harry stepped foot in the Daisy Lounge for the first time in years. He’d been regularly attending, two to four times a week, and he’d found it to be a particularly therapeutic pastime. He got to drink (a plus, but something he’d manage to do anywhere), he got pleasant conversation (something usually only available infrequently enough to not annoy his only two, married friends), and he got to earn the complete attention of an attractive, thoughtful young man- which was completely unique and unlike him. That bit was nice. He hadn’t done that since he was in his twenties- and his intentions had been entirely impure back then. But now, Harry was always sure to remind himself, he was only here for companionship. No matter what his stomach told him.

On a particularly gloomy night, one shared with Eggsy for some reason Harry couldn’t quite weasel out without being direct, a question was raised. Harry was staring into his drink, Eggsy was tidying the bar. Harry’s eyes kept straying back to him; not in want of conversation, that was always easy to come out with, but wanting to understand something he simply couldn’t figure out. And it was apparently the same for Eggsy. He met Harry’s gaze and narrowed his own.

“Harry, why are you here?  _ Really _ here?” Harry couldn’t work out the exact emotions in Eggsy’s eyes. But he could get a fair enough read on his thoughts, and they sent a shiver through his body.

“Not for that,” Harry promised. “Don’t worry, I’ve never been unfaithful.”

“That’s me fucked then. Or… not fucked.” Eggsy chuckled. “That’s good, though. Really.”

“Yes,” he agreed non-committally. “Though I can’t say the same for him. I haven’t caught him. But… he’s the type.”

“A type of jackass, I say. What an idiot,” Eggsy shook his head, “passing up his fit as fuck husband. He’s missing out.”

Harry suddenly felt  _ very _ warm under the collar, over his face, on his palms. He smiled. “You humble me.”

“You're a handsome bloke, Harry. And nice too. I just think you deserve better.”

The comment was well intended, but it came off as flippant at best. Harry felt a tingle of annoyance budding in his chest. Yes, maybe he did deserve better, maybe he deserved someone that talked to him and laughed and asked questions, but he didn’t need to hear that from someone else. Anyone else. He heard it in the back of his own head enough.

“I think it’s hardly your place to say what I deserve,” Harry droned before the thought had fully formed in his head. He stiffened in his seat, awkward but unwilling to take the words back. Eggsy looked up, eyes wide in surprise.

“I’m just saying,” he began carefully, leaving his arms at his sides, “that the shit you tell me ain’t fair, and no one deserves that. I’m not sorry for that.”

“... Yes,” Harry bit out. “A valid point. But one I don’t need to hear right now.”

“I am sorry for upsetting you,” Eggsy murmured, inclining his head slightly. He picked up a fresh glass and started a new mix, one that Harry noticed he didn’t note on his tab. Harry was almost unsettled for a moment, before realizing who he was talking to. If Harry had made the comments he had to Joseph, his husband’s first reaction would have been anger. An outburst, a raised voice, some form of child-like punishment. But instead Eggsy apologized, de-escalated the situation, and was giving him a gift.

He could see that Eggsy understood his offense, even if he didn't regret his words. But what Eggsy couldn't see was that he was angry because he wanted better, too.

“... Thank you, Eggsy,” Harry whispered, accepting the glass. All energy drained from his muscles and he sat back more heavily. Sighing, he rubbed at his eyes before taking a large mouthful. “No, no- I apologize. You are completely right. The trouble is… I agree. And that really just leaves me….”

“Fucked?”

“Fucked.”

Eggsy smiled a lopsided smile. It was gentle, but not unrealistic.

“You know, it’s really shit that it all turned out this way. It’s bollocks.” Eggsy checked that no one was around to see them, then he topped up Harry’s glass. They smiled at each other. Harry gratefully, Eggsy with a sympathetic adoration. “But I don’t want ya to lose hope for it all. Marriage is supposed to be a happy thing, yeah? I seen too many beginnings to think they all end bad.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, my mum,” Eggsy grinned. “She’s a caterer- does weddings and stuff. Weddings, funerals, anniversaries- I’ve seen em all. It gives you hope… seeing love in all its stages.”

“Mhm….” Harry murmured. He took a thoughtful sip. “What’s your mother’s name?”

“Michelle,” Eggsy answered. And a moment later added, “Unwin. Never got rid of my dad’s name.”

“Michelle….” Harry’s eyes widened. He stared at Eggsy in amazement, much to his confusion. “Eggsy. She catered  _ my _ wedding!”

“No way!” Eggsy grinned. He gasped. “Wait…. Wait, I think I remember that.”

“You were there?”

“I was!  _ God _ , Harry, you were proper fit in that tux-” Eggsy’s gaze turned wistful as leaned against the bar, deep in the memory already. “I was what, eight years old? And I only got a few glances of ya once or twice. But damn did I fancy you back then. So cool with your glasses and perfect hair and all. How could I forget you?!”

“I don’t remember you, I’m sorry,” Harry said once he’d stopped chuckling.

“It’s alright- I was behind the scenes anyway. Isn’t that funny though?” Eggsy ran a hand through his hair in disbelief. “I remember the food she made- pulled out all stops on that one. I got to make a melon bird.”

“I remember that bird!” Harry gestured with his glass. “Well done. And she made the most delicious miniature cheesecakes. Goat cheese, if I recall?”

“And pumpkin. Always.” Eggsy moaned at the memory of his mother’s baking. Harry was hungry in two very conflicting ways. “I remember those god awful bridesmaid dresses. He picked those, didn’t he? I don’t really remember the bloke, maybe ‘cause we left halfway through the ceremony.”

“Why is that?” Harry remembered inviting Michelle to stay for dinner, and vaguely recalled being too caught up in the festivities of it all to notice if she had.

“We were planning on staying. Left the stuff there and everything.” Eggsy looked thoughtful for a moment. Then recognition dawned on him, and his face fell. His voice was much softer when he said, “We got a call from my uncle…. That was the night my father died.”

“Oh,” Harry breathed. “Oh god, Eggsy. I’m so sorry.”

“Guess it was a shit night for the both us, yeah?” Eggsy joked. He sounded strained. Harry frowned, moving to cover one of Eggsy’s hands with his own. “Guess she didn’t tell you, then. She ain’t like that.”

“No. I would have….” Harry trailed off. He wanted to say something, anything. But he honestly didn’t know what he would have done. He squeezed Eggsy’s hand. “Do you want to tell me about him?”

Eggsy glanced up at him, surprised. Then a slow, warm smile spread across his face.

  
  
  
  
  


“He sounds like a wonderful man. I would have been proud to know him.” By the way Eggsy’s face shone, it was the right thing to say. Eggsy was proud to have known his father for the first part of his short life. “Are you planning on joining the military as well?”

“I’m in uni, actually,” Eggsy grinned sheepishly. Harry thought it entirely too endearing that the young man would be embarrassed about getting an education. “This is me kinda putting myself through. But I got a scholarship. For gymnastics.”

“That’s wonderful, Eggsy,” Harry said, real pride and warmth in his voice. “What are you studying?”

“Kinesiology. I wanna teach one day.”

“Gymnastics?”

Eggsy nodded, knocking out a rhythm on the counter excitedly. “Or maybe just athletics in general. I’d love to give kids a passion for activity.”

Harry smiled. “Igniting passion seems to be your forte. Now, tell me more about your gymnastics….”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been sitting in my docs for a couple weeks, 90% finished. Excuses, excuses. If you aren't in this for NSFW content, there's a page break and an innocent little scene at the end. Thank you so much for reading, commenting, and being awesome<3

When Eggsy first told Harry about his interest in gymnastics, his thoughts on the matter had been entirely innocent. He was impressed by the dedication of the hobby, as well as proud for his achievements in it. But later, the next night, Harry lay awake staring at the ceiling. He hadn’t had enough to drink to fall asleep quickly; he’d stayed late at work and only had a finger upon getting to the house. There had been countless nights like this one; he couldn’t sleep, Joseph was God knows where, it was late and he was completely alone in his thoughts. But recently, not all of his inner musings had been so terrible. He had new things to think about.

Harry found his mind recounting his conversations with Eggsy. He imagined the next time he’d get to go to the lounge, what they’d talk about, what he’d learn. Eggsy was a frequent visitor in his thoughts these days- and Harry didn’t dare consider why exactly that was. But he wasn’t about to pass up an opportunity to think about happy things for once.

Eggsy talked animatedly about gymnastics. It was clearly a passion of his. Harry had noticed months ago that Eggsy’s muscles were firm under his uniform, visibly toned enough to be of note to even a thoroughly plastered old man. Not that Harry wouldn’t admit that he  _ was _ looking for them. Harry considered Eggsy’s future career. The university they talked about was well respected, and he’d certainly get a job if his passion reflected his ability. Harry smiled. Eggsy probably looked quite ridiculous doing some of the moves he’d seen in the olympics and on the television. And in that leotard he probably had to wear. Harry had a vague idea of what the sport entailed; plenty of stretching beforehand, running, jumping, bending-

Oh, that was an interesting thought.

Harry rolled on his back as he considered this new image. Eggsy wearing a black, skin-tight little number. He’d be professional about this, at least, unlike his job. Harry imagined Eggsy stretching- his arms above his head, then reaching for his toes, then a few other wonderful arrangements that gave him a spectacular rear view. He could almost see the tricks Eggsy would do. He could swing from bar to bar, he could maneuver around a pommel horse. Harry could see Eggsy moving dexterously in his mind, confidently showing off his routine. He could see Eggsy’s muscles flexing, his back arching, his thick thighs wrapped around Harry’s waist- and  _ god _ he hadn’t gotten so hard so fast in such a long time. He felt a bit light-headed.

Harry indulged in the thoughts for another moment. They were too appealing to push away. And who could blame him, really, when he was so deprived at home and his friend was such a vision?  
But then he pushed the thoughts away and willed the moment to pass. It was wrong to think such things- basically cheating, in a way. And Eggsy probably wouldn’t appreciate his filthy old customers thinking naughty things about him. Not that Harry would be the first.

Harry’s first problem was that the visuals of Eggsy professionally showing off his routine and body were persistent ones, and no matter what he tried he couldn’t think of anything else. Harry’s second problem was more physical and somehow even harder to ignore. He sighed and closed his eyes to the dark room.

 

Between the bouts of imagined stretching and Harry fidgeting in his sheets, the memory of a deleted email slid into the mix.

It was one of the few nights where Harry and Joseph had actually socialized. There was a party (a birthday, for some person high enough in the company food chain that Joseph was forced to attend) and Harry had reprised his role as armcandy. It was an enjoyable night. There was an open bar and good food, and it would have been awkward if Joseph excluded Harry from conversation, so they talked almost the entire night. Harry worked for the same company, but he was below everyone there. He'd spent the night glued to Joseph's side, listening to stories, laughing at anecdotes, acting. By the end, he could almost recall why he'd been so deliciously happy the first couple of years.

They talked in the cab, recounting the night. Joseph complained about coworkers and companies, and Harry critiqued the meal. It was like the old days.

Harry thought that if every night were like that one, he could make it work. He'd live.

They went home and relaxed with a last drink. Joseph played some music from his teenage years on his phone and they nodded along in silence as Harry folded clothes. They nodded, and continued to even as they moved upstairs and Joseph snuck off into the en suite for his ablutions.

Harry finished organizing Joseph’s sock drawer and slid it closed. He hummed, that teenage song dancing circles in his head, and moved to hang up Joseph’s jacket (haphazardly thrown on the bed as he sauntered to the bathroom). A cell phone slid out of the pocket, landing on the duvet with a soft thud.

Harry stared at it for a long moment.

He shouldn't. Really, truthfully, he shouldn't. He knew that. Joseph would be terribly angry if he was caught snooping, and what good had come from it last time-?

Nonetheless, Harry picked up the phone. He glanced at the ajar door as he swiped it open. The shower was still running, he could still hear offkey singing. He was safe for a few moments.

To give Joseph credit, he was a thorough man. His text messages were cleared away unless they held real (business) importance. His contacts weren't suspicious. Even a glance through his photos weren't incriminating. Lastly, swallowing nervously because of the time crunch, Harry opened his email app.

He skimmed the first page, finding nothing other than the typical work rambling that Harry dealt with every day. He loaded a few more and found nothing to upset him. Harry smiled, a bit of relief seeping through him. Maybe things could be nice, for once- even if it was only for a night.

A voice in the back of his head told him not to simply put the phone away. On instinct, he opened the trash folder. Business, business, personal….

Harry recognized the name. An intern turned employee, working through the ranks in a way reminiscent of Harry's younger days at Oxford’s. He was young. Pretty. A determined worker, heavy in flattery.

'Had a great time!’ The email read. 'We’ll have to do it again. We should discuss the Potter case. Talk soon Joe!’

Any positivity he felt disappeared faster than his smile. It was innocent, one half of his conscience tried to reason, it was a friendly email.

_ Who the FUCK calls him Joe? _ another part asked.

Harry was about to search for others, or maybe a thread, but at that moment the water stopped. He cleared the apps and dropped the phone back into the jacket. By the time Joseph came out of the bathroom, Harry was sitting in bed silently.

Joseph didn't say anything as he walked to his side (Harry realized that nothing had changed Joseph's mood, and he was the one initiating conversation the whole night) and he turned his lamp off.

Nothing. That was it. After a night like that, they were back to empty, silent darkness.

Silent darkness very similar to the one Harry was engulfed in now, but he was feeling quite different. Ordinarily once the memory had surfaced, wherever he was, he’d stew in the rotten feeling of betrayal, anxiety, and guilt. But tonight that mess slid away as if it were something completely insignificant, and in its place Eggsy pranced. Eggsy was laughing about something. They had been talking about his friends the other day, and the shenanigans they’d gotten up to before he left home. Eggsy’s face radiated warmth, and his lips were so sweetly, deliciously pink.

Harry shifted in the bed again. He pulled at the waistband of his pajamas in hopes of finding a position that wasn’t painfully awkward. Instead he managed to accidentally pull the fabric tighter against him, and his breath left him in a dejected puff. His muscles felt wound up, his gut was warm and tight. And his head wouldn’t stop spinning beautiful images of a scantily clad young man limbering before his show.

No, it was wrong to think about Eggsy like that. But maybe, Harry wagered, a little innocent fantasizing would be fine. Harry imagined a young man with sandy hair, somewhere between the shades Eggsy wore when dyed and when natural. The man was more lean than Eggsy, perhaps an inch or two taller. And his face was completely unrecognizable. He didn’t give the gymnast a face, because he couldn’t imagine one he’d want to kiss the sweat off of. This not-Eggsy would work quite well, he thought.

Harry dragged his waistband down. He was already embarrassingly hard; he couldn’t see it without light, but he felt his dick bob as it was freed and drip onto his stomach. Trying to only envision a strapping young man with a face he couldn’t see, Harry took himself in hand.

Eggsy’d told Harry that his old coach used to make them limber up until his joints felt so loose and smooth he thought he could float. The faceless man began stretching his arms over his head- pulling the dark leotard against his pecs, pulling the bottom of the clothing tighter. He exercised his legs- thin legs, Harry decided, muscular but thin. Then he turned, and kept his back to Harry because it was easier to keep the face a blur that way. And his rear looked delectable. 

The young man reached for his toes, bent primly at the waist. Then he slid into the splits in a way that normally would have made Harry wince- but, caught up in the moment, he hummed appreciatively.

The gymnast’s skin, quite a bit of which was revealed, was originally an evenly sun kissed tan colour. Not even seconds later, Harry forgot that fact.

He watched as thin, pale, freckled legs pulled and ran and twisted. The muscles rippled. Harry’d always favoured the bigger, stronger men, and perhaps that was why his mind naturally filled out his wank material- fattening muscles, shortening bones, broadening bodies. Until the man’s thighs were meaty and entirely capable of crushing a man’s skull. Harry sighed desperately.

Harry’s other hand wandered down to fondle his bollocks. A gymnast’s legs were important, he figured, but their arms would surely need a proper workout too. He bit his lip as he visualized the young man pulling himself up on a bar, doing a bit of a trick that worked those glorious glutes. Alright, then, the arms would be thicker. Thicker than Harry’s, who had always managed to stay rather wiry apart from his shoulders.

The gymnast took a break. He finished his flip and remained standing in place, facing away. Then a sure hand reached up and pulled at the strap of the leotard, dragging it down a speckled shoulder carefully. Harry’s grip tightened. The gymnast freed his right arm from the clothing and let it hang there, a new expanse of smooth, kissable skin taunting Harry. The other strap fell, and with a bend and a wiggle, he began shimmying the fabric down his body. The boy’s back was defined, a pure white dotted with freckles. Harry’s hips jerked up into his fist as the leotard fell to the floor. The gymnast bent further, almost cheekily, giving Harry a fuller view than he thought his imagination capable of.

And when the young man turned around, it was Eggsy’s face winking at him.

_ God _ . Harry wanted him so badly. He wanted to take him. This primal urge felt strange to him- he’d only ever topped twice in his life, many years ago. (He was rather lean and attractive as a young man, and Joseph would never.) But Eggsy was such a pretty little thing, and his body demanded attention. He wanted to take him, wanted to sate the hunger he’d felt for so long- and he wanted to pleasure him, please him, cherish and worship him-  _ God _ , he wanted to give that young man the world.

Harry thought a bit longer on the things he wanted to give Eggsy. For each filthy, animalistic idea, there were a dozen tender ones. But as Harry’s breath came quicker and his hand stuttered nothing in his imagination was tender.

A low whine escaped his throat. In his youth, he’d been so vocal. To a fault sometimes, but always to the entertainment of his lovers. And tonight, he felt young. Harry let slip a single moan as he felt himself draw nearer and nearer.

Heavy footsteps on the stairs brought his fantasy crashing down. Immediately he slammed his mouth shut and dropped his hand. When the door swung open and Joseph trudged to the bed, throwing himself onto his side, Harry didn’t move a muscle. He laid in awkward, tense silence for many minutes. Slowly, his heartbeat returned to a manageable pace and his chest stopped heaving. He softened only slightly, his dick laying heavy on his stomach.

The clock ticking sounded like a steady hammer in his ears. He was still painfully in need of release.

Years ago, he would have readily rolled over and ran a hand down Joseph’s chest. Whisper an innuendo and press himself into Joseph’s leg to show how hard he was. But now the prospect made him shiver in the least appealing way.

Harry tiptoed to the en suite, easing the door shut quietly. He shoved his pajamas around his ankles and sat heavily on the toilet. Without a moment’s hesitation, he took himself in hand again.

Eggsy.

Eggsy’s soft, styled hair- practically begging for Harry to run his fingers through it, tug gently, breathe it in.

Any gentleness he had with  _ himself  _ at the outset was gone; Harry had to muffle his whimpers as roughly moved his hand.

Eggsy’s grinning, smirking, bitten pink lips. A teasing tongue flickering out to wet them. A teasing tongue making good on its promises, on Harry.

Eggsy. His perfect arse in those fitted purple trousers.

Harry tipped his head forward and panted. His grip stuttered again, and a thrill went through him.

“ _ Eggsy, _ ” he whispered, more of a breath than a word.

In his mind now Eggsy was doing something that only barely resembled a routine- and he kept those deadly trousers. He was moving, and it was sensual, and it didn’t make sense but that didn’t matter.

Eggsy stopped his dance, sashayed closer, and the scene flickered- to Harry looking down at Eggsy, whose beautiful lips were stretched around him.

Suddenly a wall of euphoria hit Harry like a train. He shuddered, overwhelmed. Muscle memory alone managed to save the rug under his feet by cupping his hand in front of him.

 

It took a long moment for him to regain this senses. Harry sighed, breathy and pleased, and he released himself carefully. He couldn't remember the last time he'd come so hard. He used a tissue to clean the rope of cum that had managed to string across his fingers and washed his hands serenely. His chest felt loose, his head light. He could breath easier. At that moment (and he wouldn’t vouch for his future self) he felt no regret.

  
  
  
  
  


 

Eggsy's smile weakened, but it persisted in an encouraging way. “Something on your mind, Haz?”

Harry looked up at Eggsy properly. It occurred to him that he hadn’t smiled even once since he sat down an hour ago, and he had no idea why. He hadn't had a particularly bad day at work, and there was no change in Joseph's behaviour. For some reason he was stuck in the most retched mood. He wished he could have left it at the door. Eggsy deserved better than having to spend his shift with Harry’s sour, dampening personality.

“I suppose so. Stuck in some memories.”

“Oh yeah?” Eggsy asked. Harry threw back his head and drained his glass, fighting the phantom burn he almost never felt anymore. When he met Eggsy's eyes, they held such genuine interest. They were real, and present, and they wanted to know what Harry was thinking, what Harry'd been through. His heart fluttered in the softest way as Eggsy nodded encouragingly and refilled his tumbler.

“... I had a dog, once,” Harry said, picking one sadness from the well. He stared into the amber liquid in his glass and could only see the light brown patch of fur around his poor baby’s muzzle. “I loved that pup more than anything.”

“What was its name?”

Harry paused. He smiled sadly. “You'll laugh.”

“No I won't,” Eggsy said indignantly. “Promise. Pinky swear.”

Harry took Eggsy's little finger in his own, leaving the contact a little longer than strictly necessary. “Mr Pickle.”

“That's cute as fuck.”

“He was.” Harry scrubbed at an eye tiredly. “He was a very good boy, and sweet as a button. I spoiled him like no one's business, but he was never snotty like small dogs can get.”

Eggsy nodded, wanting more. Suddenly Harry didn't feel like talking about happy things when there was so much to regret.

“He had pancreatitis. He got sick while I was away, and Joseph brought him to the vet.”

“Oh no, the poor thing.”

Harry took a moment to contain himself. He could feel his eyes stinging, and he refused to do  _ that _ .

“Joseph took him in and the doctor said it'd kill him eventually. So he had him put down.” Harry didn't look up to see Eggsy's horrified expression. “He could have lived longer, we could have helped him. I… could have said goodbye.”

Harry felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. He kept talking. “I got him before I started at Oxford’s. He was eleven. I didn't get to say goodbye. I wanted to… have him....”

He trailed off before he could come up with what he wanted, or he broke down crying. Harry stared at the counter, unseeing, not hearing the low music or the sweet murmurs from Eggsy. That is, until he felt a smooth hand against his cheek. Eggsy tilted his head up gently, stroking his skin with the softest fingertips he’d ever felt. Then he seemed to realize what he was doing, and the hand was gone faster than it had appeared.

 

Harry drew a deep breath and took off his glasses, folding them and stowing them away in his breast pocket. “Sorry about that. I haven’t really had a chance to be sad about it in a while. I suppose I’ve had a rather emotional day.”

“It’s okay, Haz. That's what friends are for. Listening.”

“What kind of friend pushes all of his problems on someone else's shoulders?” He snorted, self-deprecating. “A poor excuse for a gentleman….”

“You really are a good man, Harry,” Eggsy said. The words were completely genuine; Harry could see the emotion in his eyes. “You’re strong, and compassionate, and not even that much of an asshole sometimes.”

Harry snorted. He could see what it was, the last bit. A chance. A chance for him to escape and run away to Joseph before things got any deeper. But the emotion (it was still there, lingering, unable to be thwarted even by the weak joke), it meant something to him. It wasn’t just innocent affection- Harry may have been out of the game for a long while, but he could tell when someone was completely gone. And he saw the war in Eggsy’s eyes in his own every time he looked in the mirror. The mirror last week, the mirror last night, the mirror this morning. And when he glanced over Eggsy’s shoulder at the reflective back wall of the bar- he saw it there again, sitting heavy in his own eyes. He couldn’t go on like this for much longer.

But he would have to.

  
“Say, you mentioned a stopped up sink in the back?” Eggsy nodded as Harry slid off of his stool, preparing to shuck his suit jacket. “Getting help may take ages. Let me take a look at it, will you?”


	6. Chapter 6

Harry sat at the bar with a sinking feeling in his gut. Whenever Eggsy disappeared into the back, it was never for more than a moment or two. The job was so easy, he'd told Harry once, that he usually didn't even bother taking his breaks. If he wanted to sneak out for a few moments, he'd just leave- not like he had any customers anyway. But he always came back. And soon. Harry glanced at his watch, then craned his neck to see the clock. He sat down ten minutes ago.  
Eggsy's replacement yesterday hadn't been of any help. Seemingly having worked two shifts straight, she wasn't much of a conversationalist either. Simple, uninformed answers.  
“Is Eggsy here?” Harry asked.  
“No,” she said simply. “How can I help you?”  
“Do you know why not? He's usually here on Thursdays.”  
“Nope.” She seemed uninterested in the conversation, but out of sheer necessity asked: “Anything to drink?”  
“Will he be back soon?” A shrug, a hand rubbing at a tired eye.  
“I see.” Harry drummed his fingers on the counter and glanced around the bar. It wouldn't be the first visit where he'd missed Eggsy, but suddenly he didn't feel like drinking at all. At least not while sitting in silence under the scrutiny of this exhausted young lady. “But he's okay, right?”  
“Sorry, sir.” The bartender made a noncommittal gesture and quirked her lip in a way that reminded Harry of Amara when faced with a younger child she couldn't understand.  
“Me too,” he muttered. He fished a few coins from his pocket and dropped them on the counter. “Sorry to bother you. Have a nice night.”  
“Ditto,” the woman quipped, monotone yet pleasant as she slid her spoils into her palm.

But now Harry was sitting alone, save for the four other bar goers that stood testily around waiting to be served. And even the overworked woman with the tired eyes wasn't around. Harry squirmed in his seat and tried to get his mind to do anything but worry.  
Harry looked up as one other patron broke off to apologize to their date, and his eyes lit upon an opening door. He'd passed through it only once before, back in his promiscuous phase. In those days, he'd managed to seduce the manager at the time into inviting him to his office for a bit of snogging and hands. And he hadn't paid any attention to the room at all since that night- but now his attention was zeroed in on the door. A man was coming out of it, head bald and clipboard in hand.  
The man locked the door and turned, striding towards the bar with intent. He scanned the small crowd gathered, and Harry stood as their eyes met. He started an awkward little jog as his old friend halted.  
“Merlin,” Harry breathed, repeating it louder. “Merlin. Merlin Davis! Is that really you?!”  
    “Harry bloody Hart,” Merlin said in return. He opened his arms and allowed Harry to throw himself into them. They clapped each other on the back and pulled away to stare in amazement. Merlin looked old. Old but well. “What are you doing here?”  
    “I could ask you the same thing!” He stared a moment longer before breaking into a grin and touching Merlin’s shoulder. “I haven’t seen you in years. Well. Well, you look wonderful.”  
    “Ach, still a no good liar.” Merlin grinned. “I own the place. Took it on half a year ago.”  
    “That’s wonderful!” The pair turned and walked towards the bar. “How have I not seen you around yet?”  
    “I like to keep to a human schedule,” Merlin teased. Harry rolled his eyes.  
    “Just like the good old days, still a wet napkin. You can’t expect to keep your bedtime when you’re managing a bar.”  
    “Eggsy seems to be doing just fine on his own now,” he said, sliding behind the counter and turning towards the first customer. Harry’s prior anxiety crashed back into him, and he couldn’t stop the words from tumbling from his lips.  
    “Speaking of Eggsy,” he forced out, leaning on the counter, “do you happen to know where he is?”  
    “You know him?” Merlin asked. He served a drink and turned to another patron with a smile that didn’t look natural.  
    Harry bit his lip as he waited for the exchange to be done. “Yes, I’ve been coming here for nearly five months now. You’d have known that if you ever showed your handsome mug.”  
    “No need to get so testy, Harry.” Merlin grinned. This one was real, and only for him. Harry had missed his friend more than he realized. “Afraid I don’t know. The young lad asked for a week or two off, said it could not be avoided.”  
    “He didn’t say where he was going?”  
    “Harry Hart, I haven’t seen you in over ten years and this is what you’re asking me about?” Merlin dealt his last order and turned to Harry with an amused look. “Hah. Typical.”  
    Harry very much wanted to be annoyed, but he couldn’t find it in himself. He felt like a ruddy bastard, one that regretted everything he’d said to his oldest friend the last time they’d spoken. And now he was being as self-absorbed as ever. “I’m sorry, Merlin.”  
    “It’s no thing, I-”  
    “No, I’m sorry,” he said, folding his hands together on his lap. “I’m so sorry. About… being an arse, and all those things I said.”  
    “... I forgive you,” Merlin said after a long, charged moment. Harry felt his heart in his throat as he stared into those big, dark eyes. “Does this mean you’ve taken my opinions into consideration?”  
    “... We’re still married.”  
    “Harry.”  
    “But…. But I mean- I understand, now. I see it.” Harry’s gaze fell to the grimy countertop. Eggsy always kept it spotless. “All of it.”  
    “... Aye,” Merlin said softly. “At least there’s that.”  
    Harry nodded. He allowed himself to feel properly chastised for another moment, letting Merlin finish whatever he needed to as a substitute barman. When he turned toward him again his expression was less sombre, and Harry’s lips lifted into an easy smile. “How have things been? Ten years is a lot to catch up on.”  
    “I’ve had my ups and downs. Like taking this mangy old flower on,” Merlin grinned, nodding towards the empty dancefloor. “She’s not much on business.”  
    “Why did you buy it?” Harry asked, curious.  
    “How could I pass it up?” Merlin looked both pained and fond as he turned a glass in his hands. “The memories I have in this place. The memories we have.”  
    Harry smiled sadly. “Yeah?”  
    Merlin smirked suddenly. “The price tag helped too.”  
    “I bet it did,” Harry said dryly. “How about a drink, then? You’d best make your money back somehow.”

 

    Eggsy did not return in a week as promised, but two. Harry returned faithfully each night, now to visit Merlin as much as to wait for Eggsy’s reappearance. Merlin fielded all enquiries he made by claiming the boy wouldn’t tell him anything. And when Harry pestered any more than that, he gave him a funny look that shut him up quickly.  
    Harry enjoyed the time rekindling his friendship with Merlin. And he properly introduced himself to the exhausted young lady he’d met the first night- Marika, Mar as she preferred. She was apparently a computer genius and helping Merlin in one of his many business ventures. Harry quickly forgot the name of whatever it was they were working on. He was more focused on listening to her (now far more energized and rather entertaining to listen to) talk about her studies, friends, and Merlin.  
    When he learned of their involvement, a joke about cradle robbing flew to his tongue. He bit it back with a sick feeling in his stomach.  
Mar was nearly thirty. His late night imaginations were worse than that.

 

When Eggsy did return, it was as casually as he left. Harry didn’t know what he expected to happen. One night he opened the door to the Daisy and there he was, standing behind the bar replacing bottles on the back shelf. Harry had to restrain himself from flying across the room and calling out to him. Instead he quickly jaunted to his seat, heart racing.  
    “Eggsy!” Harry grinned. “You’re back!”  
    Eggsy jerked around, bottle still in hand. His face instantly lit up, illuminating the dim room. “Hey Haz!”  
    As quickly as his smile appeared, it tightened and fell. He nodded and quickly turned back to his work. But not before Harry saw the purple and yellow discolouration around his left eye. “Yeah. Finally back.”  
    Harry floundered for a moment. He opened his mouth, closed it. After a long moment of hard thought, all he could come up with was: “How are you?”  
    Eggsy seemed to take a steadying breath before turning around again. He had no way to hide it now- Eggsy was sporting a black eye. A nasty one at that. It was probably at least a week old, fading around the edges but still unmistakably painful.  
    “Glad to be back,” Eggsy said, a forced cheer in his voice.  
    “Where did you go?”  
    “Went to visit mum,” he answered simply. Harry mulled that over, considering whether he believed Michelle could truly be the cause of his bruise. He didn’t find this likely- she just didn’t seem like the type. Keeping in mind one should never make assumptions… he felt rather sure about this one.  
    “How is your mother?” Harry quickly added, “And Daisy?”  
    “They’re good,” Eggsy said, preparing a drink without asking. Harry always found himself ordering something different anyway. He wouldn’t mind whatever the boy gave him. “Just went through a bit of a tough spot. I sorted it out.”  
    “Oh. Yes, that’s good,” Harry said agreeably. He liked Michelle, from the few interactions they’d had years ago and the fact that she raised such a fine young man. “I’m glad. A lovely woman, your mother. She’s lucky to have you.”  
    Eggsy smiled sweetly and handed over his drink. “Thanks, Haz. How have you been?”  
    Harry sipped his drink and considered digging deeper. Instead he began a story about work, and told Eggsy about Amara’s latest winning game. They talked about James and Percival’s garden, a well intentioned mess of dirt that James had Harry help with occasionally, and about their niece, who was considerably more tidy. They almost didn't talk about it at all.  
Their conversation had drawn out a couple of hours before an easy silence fell, and Harry found the words coming out before he could stop them.

    “Eggsy?”  
    “Yeah?”  
    “What happened to your face?”  
    Eggsy tensed. He didn’t stop cleaning, and he didn’t turn to face him. “Nothing happened, Harry.”  
    “You’ve got a bruise,” Harry murmured softly. “How’d that happen?”  
    “Nothing happened.” There was a final tone to his words. They left no room for argument. “It’s fine.”  
    “... Are you sure?” Harry worried his bottom lip and adjusted his posture. Eggsy didn’t reply. After a long moment he said, “Who hurt you?”  
    “I don’t want to fuckin talk about it, alright?”  
“I just want to help. I want to make sure that you're safe, Eggsy.”  
“But I'm not yours to take care of,” Eggsy snapped. He took a shuddering breath and slammed the glass he was drying down, staring at some speck on the counter. “It’s none of your business.”  
    Harry swallowed. He had no right to pry, and he had no right to be so hurt. Draining the tumbler in one go, Harry pushed away from the counter. “... Quite right. I apologize, Eggsy. I’ll, ah…. I’ll see you tomorrow, yes?”  
    “Yeah,” Eggsy said quietly.

 

Harry lay in bed that night, head and heart filled with anguish. Mostly he was imagining all the horrible ways Eggsy could have received his black eye, why he'd disappeared and refused to explain himself. But another significant part of his mind was agonizing over angering Eggsy.  
He was right. Eggsy wasn't Harry's to fuss about. But he wanted to. He wanted to worry like a mother hen and tuck Eggsy under his arm until he was safe from the world. He wanted to right whatever wrong had led him to be so defensive, and gently wash away any bruises defacing his skin. He wanted Eggsy to cooperate with him. He wanted Eggsy.  
… Maybe he was a little less mother hen-ish than he thought. But the intentions were there, and he was immensely uncomfortable about the fact that he couldn’t act on them. It felt wrong, deep in his core. It felt wrong to care so much for a person and not be given the right to know about their pain.

 

 

“I’m sorry, guv. It’s about closing time.” Eggsy was busy replacing glasses, wiping the counter. Harry sighed. It was over a month ago that Harry’d discovered Eggsy’s black eye, and the argument was behind them. He never did find out what had caused it- but he was used to evasive men. Joseph’s eternal demeanor, Percival’s client confidentiality. He wasn’t bitter about it. Really, he was just glad things had returned to how they were before Eggsy disappeared. This night, however, he felt like shit. “Aw, I know I’m good company and all, but ya don’t gotta sound so heartbroken.”  
“I think you underestimate just how little I want to go back to that house,” Harry said, lifting his glasses to rub at his eyes. They remained atop his head as he looked at Eggsy, offering no other explanation or complaint. Eggsy stared back for a long moment, conflicted.  
“How’d you like me to call you a cab?”  
“Sure. To anywhere but home.” Harry said the words offhandedly, not paying attention now as he sifted through his wallet.  
“... Would you like to come back to mine?” Eggsy asked. Harry’s head jerked up. “I'm a night owl. We can stay up and talk, or just sleep. Up to you.”  
“... I… would like that. That’s very kind of you, Eggsy.” Something in Harry’s head was whispering, telling him it was wrong, that he had all the wrong ideas, that it was taboo to even entertain the idea. But another part of his mind was screaming yes.

Harry watched as Eggsy went about his closing duties. He counted the money in the register, then locked it all up. Made rounds of the booths, and had Harry help put the stools up. “Gotta work for my couch, you see.”  
Harry smiled, chuckled. He was giddy. Drunk, granted, but so pleased that he wouldn't have to return to the house.

 

It turned out Eggsy did have a car- one Harry couldn't name, but could probably put a short price tag on. It was as old as Amara and needed a few tries before the engine caught. Eggsy drove them a fair distance- out of the classier party district, past the questionable party district, and deep into a community of tiny apartments Harry'd never known existed. It was the kind of place where Joseph wouldn't be caught dead- and if he was deceased, would keep his doors locked and windows up.  
Harry found it rather quaint though. There were kids’ playthings in front of some apartments, chalk markings on the sidewalks. Inside the lobby an automatic air freshener coughed a fruity scent at him. It reminded him of his first apartment. Though he only lived there for a handful of weeks, it was a fond memory.

“I like it,” Harry said absently, glancing at a cheap painting in the hallway as Eggsy jiggled his key. Eggsy’s head snapped up like he was expecting judgement. Seeing no sarcasm and plenty of intoxicated awe, he allowed a small smile.  
“It's not a bad place. Got some really nice neighbours.” The door unstuck, and Eggsy ushered him inside. Harry took off his shoes and wandered in, looking at the tiny living room. “It's actually pretty good, for the price. Anything to drink?”  
“What've you got?”  
“Uhhh….” Eggsy drummed his fingers against the open fridge door. “Water. Sorry. I don't… actually drink.”  
“You don't drink?” Harry asked, turning toward him incredulously. He joined Eggsy in the kitchen, accepting his scratched glass of water.  
“Funny, ain't it?” Eggsy ran himself a glass and moved to the couch. “I don't got nothing against people that do. The good ones, at least. But I've seen what it can do.”  
Harry nodded, seeing a bruise in his mind’s eye.  
“I guess that helps?” Eggsy continued. “I know how to deal with drunk people. How to calm em down and kick em out.”  
“A good skill to have,” Harry agreed. He didn't feel he should say much on the matter, considering how slurred his words would be.  
Eggsy seemed to pick up on that, smiling and nudging his arm. “But don't worry your little head, Haz, you're my favourite kind of drunk. You just talk, and get sorta pink. You get this adorable look in your eyes. Never any trouble, you.”  
Eggsy was smiling so genuinely, and god, Harry could feel how pink he was.

“How about a movie?” Eggsy asked, pulling the coffee table closer and wiggling his wireless mouse. The laptop hidden under the tv stand woke up, and Eggsy began typing away on the keyboard on the table. “I bet I can find a stream of one of those Bond movies you like.”  
“Aw,” Harry breathed, drunkenly touched that Eggsy remembered. He settled into the couch as he waited, crossing his legs.

“I always wanted to do something heroic,” Eggsy said, moments after they’d watched Roger Moore kiss the girl and save the day. “I wanted to be something, you know?”  
“A frequent dream children have,” Harry nodded. “But what’s really admirable is that you’re pursuing it. In your studies.”  
“Yeah,” Eggsy smiled sheepishly, rubbing his neck. “That’s not gonna be as exciting though. I grew up in a bad neighbourhood, and I had all these day dreams about showing up one day and kicking Dean’s ass, and saving some kids from his dogs. You know? Adrenaline and shit. But… teaching will be fun too.”  
Feeling that it wasn’t his place to ask of who Dean and the dogs were yet, Harry smiled. “A good teacher will keep children from growing into adult bullies.”  
“I hope so.” Eggsy sat forward and closed the tab. He opened another website and put music on in the background, something Harry’d never heard. The kind of music that left people Harry’s age uncomfortable and scandalized. It made Harry giggle. “You ever have those kind of big dreams when you was a kid, watching these movies?”  
“No, no,” Harry said honestly, shaking his head. “I was much too… whimpy. Too realistic to want to go under gunfire. However, when I did let loose, I fancied a future as a colorful megalomaniac.”  
“What?” Eggsy laughed. “You’re nothing like that!”  
“Oh, but I could be,” Harry grinned. “It’s a nice deal. Big lair on a beautiful island or something. Henchmen to do all the heavy lifting. A handsome young man at my side. It’d be a nice change, from what I’ve had.”  
“A change, yeah?”  
Harry looked to Eggsy. He’d been rambling aimlessly, no real

 

“I think… god, I don’t want to be a terrible person, but…” Eggsy looked at him so sadly, “I think he’s just bad for you. I don’t think you should be with him.”  
“Eggsy.”  
“I think you should leave him, guv. If you can.” Something told Harry that he knew not everyone could just up and leave. “I won’t tell you what to do. ‘Cause I don’t know what you would even do. But that’s what I think.”  
“I think so too,” Harry murmured softly. He looked at the faded couch cushion between them. “I just don’t think I can….”  
“Maybe one day, yeah?” Eggsy had that beautiful, optimistic glint in his eyes again. Harry smiled, and changed the subject.

 

The two of them had spent hours talking. And don’t get him wrong, Eggsy loved it. Harry was fun to be around, even when he was having a bad day. But he knew he’d have to wake up at some point tomorrow, and every hour spent chatting with Harry meant more exhaustion tomorrow. But Eggsy couldn’t find it in him to care. They’d managed to scoot closer to each other subconsciously, until they’d met about halfway on the center couch cushion. Harry laughed at something he said, an open laugh that he was too comfortable to repress. Eggsy grinned as he watched it happen, the upturn of his lips, the column of his throat, leading down to the single button undone on his shirt.  
“Are you cold?” Harry asked suddenly, gently caressing Eggsy’s bare forearm. Eggsy looked down. His skin had erupted with goosebumps.  
That grounded him. He took a second to savour the moment, the warm feeling of Harry’s fingers on his skin, the closeness. Then he drew in a long breath and nodded.  
“Yeah, I am.” He stood, taking the three strides to the closet. Eggsy rummaged around, barely paying attention to the jackets as he tried to clear his mind. He grabbed a hoodie at random, the knockoff black one with gold plates, and balled it up in his arms.  
Eggsy turned, holding the jacket close to his chest, and was suddenly face to face with Harry. There was barely an inch between them. Harry’s hand came up to steady Eggsy by the elbow unnecessarily, angling him even closer in the process. Eggsy went breathless for a moment. Harry was so close, so warm, so consuming- and Harry’s eyes were flickering towards his lips. God, Harry was staring at his mouth with such unrestrained… something.  
And then he took his hand away and glanced at his watch. Eggsy could guess that it was at least a few hours behind, but still Harry cleared his throat and said, “Dear me, it’s quite late, isn’t it?”  
That bloody watch. Eggsy nodded and forced a smile, stepping back. He slid his hoodie on and said something about getting sheets as he scurried away.

 

 

On Eggsy’s next shift, Harry didn’t visit the lounge. He didn’t think much of it; it wouldn’t be the first time he missed a day he usually came on, and Harry was a busy man. The next day he thought on it- but ultimately decided that they’d left on such good terms, there was no reason to worry. By Saturday Eggsy could think of nothing else.  
He knew he sort of deserved it for doing the same to Harry. But it wasn't his fault he had to go away- Eggsy dared to hope it wasn't Harry's either. Harry wouldn't be so petty as to do this on purpose. But Eggsy would have preferred that to anything happening to him.  
Eggsy imagined Harry realizing how close they’d become and recoiling. Realizing he was married and yet spending time with a boy fifteen years younger than himself. Being disgusted with his own actions and swearing off coming to the lounge ever again.  
He imagined Harry thinking they’d gone too far in going to Eggsy’s apartment. Before they could have written it off as being casual acquaintances, not even friends, really, if you wanted to look at it that way. But now, going to his home, being there so late, spending the night- it held all kinds of implications.  
Eggsy imagined Harry being confronted by Joseph- asked where he was, who he was with, what he was doing. Harry, the noble bastard, wouldn’t lie. And there’s where Eggsy got stuck in a loop of worrying. Even if Harry wasn’t put off by his own actions, then what Joseph might do to him if he knew where he’d been would definitely be something to consider….


End file.
